


To Wake Perchance to Dream

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Fluff, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-04
Updated: 2006-08-04
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Harry is having nightmares.  Can Ginny help?Written pre-HBP.





	To Wake Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Allie for the beta.  


* * *

To Wake Perchance to Dream 

The dreams come every night: screams and cries, flashes of green light and rivers of blood.  He ends up in a cold sweat, the blankets tangled around his feet, holding him prisoner while he thrashes in his sleep.  When he is mercifully awoken, perhaps by the sound of his own screams, he stumbles through the house, sometimes stubbing his toe along the way, and finally enters the kitchen.

 

And every night, she is there.  It's no longer a surprise to see her bright head waiting at the table with a steaming mug placed in front of the empty seat across from her.  He doesn't like to think about what a relief it is to have her there, cinnamon eyes smiling calmly at him, red lips curved in a reassuring manner.

 

He slides into the seat, his legs still shaking, and never seems to notice that her night dress plunges low, revealing an expanse of freckled skin, never looks hard enough to see her nipples hardened into points beneath the white muslin material of her gown.

 

His hands, still trembling from the terrible vision blazed onto his mind, wrap around the warmth of the mug, and he doesn't question why his heart seems to melt as his hands grow warm.

 

"Tell me about your dream," she gently says to him, and he looks up from watching the steam curl like a ribbon into the air to meet her dark eyes.  He knows he shakes his head, every night, no - he doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to bother her.  But her hand reaches across, small, soft, dry, and for a brief moment she cups his with her own around the mug.  The words tumble out of him.  Does he cry?  He can never remember afterward.   He must though, because he awakens every morning, his covers pulled up beneath his chin, with his cheeks sticky from residual moisture, his eyes puffy and sore.

 

He longs every morning to stay in bed, but even heroes have to rise.  He goes to the kitchen, where Hermione is standing at the counter, flicking her wrist at the coffee pot to fill the bright room with the smell of freshly-roasted beans. Ron sits at the table, in the same spot every morning, reading over the paper and looking more like an adult than he had ever imagined possible.  And there she is, bright eyes, dewy freckled skin, not looking as if she'd spent half the night soothing her older brother's mentally-troubled best mate back to sleep.  She never lets on that she knows his deepest fears and regrets, just smiles at him, wishes good morning and asks how many flat cakes he would like to have.  He hates flat cakes.  He always asks for five. 

 

He catches Ron studying him every once in a while, although the redhead never says anything.  Sometimes Hermione will chide him, turning into the mother hen she was born to be, tell him he needs more sleep, he looks tired, she can brew a potion that'll help, if he'd like.  He always says no and avoids Ginny's eyes, feeling guilty but unable to wish away the nightmares completely. 

 

It's become a pattern now, a habit, the same routine - the dreams, the talks, the sobs that he can't quite remember, the smiles in the morning that mean more than any one knows….

 

…until one night, the dreams change.  The screams become sighs, the cries become moans, the flashes of light become flashes of heat, deep inside of him.  He wakes up, drenched in sweat as always, but this sweat is hot, heavy, musky; the blankets are tangled around his ankles, revealing the rather prominent evidence of his dream.  Unthinking, he wraps his hand around himself, and shudders and sighs and says her name as he imagines her tight mouth moving along the length of him.  Afterwards, he throat is sore.

 

Eventually, he makes his way down the kitchen, surprised for the first time to see her in her usual seat.  She rests her head on one elbow, propped up by the glass table, and opens her eyes when he walks in…gives a sleepy sort of smile.  There's something intimate in that smile; it causes him to notice the expanse of skin revealed by her gown.  His eyes flick briefly to her chest.  His cheeks flood with an unwelcome heat and he makes his way quickly to the sink.  

 

With his back turned toward her, he fills up a glass and greedily gulps it down, hoping it will put out the liquid fire coursing through his veins. 

 

"I didn't think you needed me tonight," she tells him softly, sounding both amused and hurt.

 

He swallows harshly and turns to face her, grateful for the thick blanket of darkness that lays over the room.  He knows he is staring but can't seem to stop.  He watches with guarded eyes ( _Can she read his mind?)_ as she gestures to the seat in front of her where a mug waits, the tea no longer steaming.  

 

"Tell me about your dream," she encourages him.  For a moment, he can only stare, too terrified that she knows new secrets of his, but she smiles in the same calm, reassuring manner as always, and so he lies.  

 

For the first time in weeks, he wakes up with a clear head; he remembers every gesture that she made, every touch of her hand.  He remembers every time his heart leapt and the fire that lit in his belly.  

 

When he goes to the kitchen, it's Ron this time who tells him he looks tired.  He can't meet anyone's eyes; he tries to watch her covertly.  When she levels her gaze on him, she smiles - her bright, cheery daytime smile, not at all intimate, nothing at all like the smiles she seems to reserve for under the careful watch of the moon.  He skips breakfast. 

 

He stops going to the kitchen at night.  Can't be around her anymore for fear of what he'll do.  He begins to imagine her, all the time, the ways he wants to touch her, to feel her, to move inside of her and make her whimper and moan as she does in his dreams.  

 

Eventually, she stops asking if he wants breakfast.  She ceases smiling only for him.  He imagines she no longer waits in the kitchen.

 

Dreams come every night now, but they are only of her, of heat and of her.  The late summer weather brings a tumult of storms; nearly every night, lightning flashes and illuminates the world outside his bedroom window. 

 

Tonight he rises, the storm beyond the walls of his home echoes seamlessly within his body.  He makes his way to the kitchen, although he knows that water will not quench his thirst.  The liquid he longs for can not come from a tap.

 

It can only come from the woman sitting at the table.  He halts in the doorway, arrested by the sight of her as she brings wide, surprised eyes up to him.  He flushes uncomfortably when her gaze fixes on his naked chest.

 

“What….”  His throat feels dry.  The night air feels heavy and damp.  His eyes are focused on her rapidly moving chest, and he wills himself to turn around.

 

She stands from her spot at the table and moves around it, closing in on him.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.  He feels panic and fear and longing and desire fill his every pore.

 

Her eyes narrow slightly.  “What are you doing here?” she counters, sounding hurt.  Her eyes darken slightly.  Her face falls.  “You don’t need me anymore,” she says accusingly.

 

_Crash._

 

The thunder causes her to jump.  The lightning that soon follows baths the room with an eerie, yellow glow, only for a moment.  It's long enough for him to see the tears upon her cheeks.  He reaches forward and brushes his finger tip across her freckled skin.   She takes a shaky breath.  At the base of her neck, he can see her pulse beating as rapidly as a fairy's wings.  He watches her swallow and does the same.  He is entranced by his own fingertip, watches as it slides down her cheek, pulling wetness as it moves.  

 

More of his fingers join in the feathery touch, trailing down her neck as she tilts her head slightly to give him better access.  Her eyes fly up to his; she's holding her breath and looks as terrified as he feels. The room is filled with a sweet, unwelcome tension.  His heart seems to catch in his throat.  He leans in, placing his lips at her pulse, unsurprised to find she tastes of vanilla and cinnamon.  A moan catches in her throat, turning into a hiss of his name as it moves past her lips, and he answers with murmur of his own.

 

"I always need you," he mumbles into her hot skin, letting his fingers dance upon her and move the straps of her gown down, raining kisses on every patch of bare skin he dares to touch.  She sighs, whispers something that might be, "good," but he can't quite make it out; he no longer cares.

He pulls back briefly to see her eyes have fluttered shut.  Another flash of lightning illuminates the room and allows him to see her skin is flushed and bright.  She flicks her eyes open and meets his gaze again.  "You always need me."  It isn't a question.

 

He nods and moves in, pressing his body against her curves.  He places his hands under her bottom and hoists her onto the table.  She brings her hands up, cups the curves of his cheeks in a way that should feel maternal, but it makes him burn.  And then, finally, her lips slide across his own, open in a quick moment, hot tongue searching out its companion.  Teeth scrape and clang together, breath mingles.  He can no longer tell what taste, what scent, belongs to whom.  Pressure mounts exquisitely.  It's unbearable.  He never wants it to end.  

 

Her hands are suddenly everywhere, touching his bare skin.  Her lips soon follow, leaving a trail of wetness along his stomach.  She comes precariously close to the spot that aches for her, causing him to suck in his stomach, but she lingers no more than a few seconds, moving back up his chest and flashing him a seductive, wicked smile.  

 

She presses her lips to his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth again.  "Tell me about your dream," she whispers.

 

He groans.  "You were there," he murmurs in an undertone.  "Your mouth was everywhere."  He shudders at both the memory and the feeling of her mouth now, wetter, hotter, greedier than he'd ever imagined.  "And I touched you…here, like this."  He moves along the expanse of her neck, sucking hungrily as he goes, unconcerned about leaving a mark.   She cries out loud when he closes his lips over her nipple, right over the flimsy material of her gown.  It grows damp beneath his mouth, turns translucent.  

 

"Harry," she breathes, her head thrown back in abandon.  He tugs lightly with his teeth.  His cock grows bigger at the sound of her voice, saying his name…like _that_.  "What did you do next?"

 

He moves his hand to her foot, letting his fingers slide in between her toes and across the bottom of her foot before clasping her ankle.  She shivers.  His hand starts up her smooth leg while his mouth begins to work on her other breast, turning the material translucent there as well.  He grazes past the soft, underside of knee, smiling against her when she giggles and tries to move.  

 

"I touch you here," he whispers, trailing his fingers along her thigh and pushing the material of her gown up along with them.  He moves back to look at her, keeps eye contact as his fingers touch her over her knickers, already so wet.  Her mouth drops open.  "Like this."  He slips his fingers beneath the elastic at the juncture of her thigh.  

 

"Oh," she whispers, delightedly.  "Yessss." The word ends on a hiss.  He is entranced, mesmerized by her breathing, by her moans and the open admiration upon her face.  

 

Her hips move back and forth on the edge of the table.  He slips another finger inside of her, excited more than he would have thought possible, letting his thumb finally brush against the part that makes her jump.  

 

"Do I touch you?" she asks a moment later, breathless, sounding near her breaking point.  

 

He swallows hard, his eyesight going black for a moment.   He can only nod and give a guttural cry when her hand brushes along his pyjama bottoms and then moves to the tie at his waist.  With the help of his unoccupied hand, she manages to push his bottoms off of him, and then…oh Merlin, she grasps him in her hand.  

 

"Ginny," he says her name out loud, unable to quell the beating of his heart, to stop his hips from jutting forward into her hand.  

 

Things grow hazy.  He must of have pushed her back, because suddenly she is lying down, staring up at him with dark, luminous eyes.  Her night gown is pushed up around her hips, and then…it's better than he had ever dreamed…he's sliding into her…she's tight, fits around him like a velvet glove.  Her hips move in little circles.  She brings her legs around him, as if trying to bring him closer.  He can't stop kissing her…not caring where his lips fall, only concerned that he never stops touching her skin.  He thinks he might die, is happy to let her take him.  Knows he can't last, but doesn't want it to end.  

 

She clenches around him and cries out so loud that he fears the others will hear, but then he too is lost, and unable to care, and maybe he cried out, but he doesn't recall.  

 

When it is over…when his heart has slowed down, he looks at her, and can't stop the smile that grows upon his face.  

 

She glances up and meets his eyes.  "You always need me," she tells him.

 

Lightning flashes once more.  He can see her freckled hand clasped in his.  He leads her up to his room, lying down beside her on his bed, knowing that dreams are not real, and sometimes reality can be so much better.  


End file.
